Tool of the Trade (8 page)

I got my toothbrush and a paper bag of clothes and such. Several paperback books and a handful of mail that was sitting on the dining room table. My escort put his gun in an attaché case and went through the pockets of my coat. He found the Mace squirter, wiped his fingerprints off it, and tossed it under the couch. Then he handed me the coat, dropped the handcuffs into his pocket, and motioned for us to go.

A part of my brain that I couldn’t make shut up was saying, This is deep shit. These guys are kidnapping you and they aren’t even bothering to wear masks. Either they are rank amateurs or they know that you’ll never live to identify them.

There was a dark-green van waiting in front of the apartment building. Getting in, I contrived to drop a piece of mail on the sidewalk, but he saw me do it. Retrieved it and handed it back without comment.

In the back of the van there were no windows, just a lumpy carpet and a pair of incongruous easy chairs, overstuffed and musty, and a picnic cooler. I sat down, and he handcuffed me to the cooler, then rummaged around in it and offered me a Coke. I said no, but he opened it and pressed it into my free hand. Then he shook a pill out of a bottle and held it out for me to take. I didn’t make an issue of it. It was a little yellow pill like aspirin for children, but very bitter.

The van drove off down Harvard Street, away from the river and Boston. After a few blocks my vision started to blur and I felt a little sick. I drank some more of the Coke and then dropped the can, on the verge of vomiting, but then I went totally limp and couldn’t keep my head up or my eyes open. With my head vibrating against the cold window my last thought was
Twenty years ago I would have paid good money for this shit
.

The feeling is like
déjà vu
inside out: You should know something, remember something, but you don’t There’s just a hole there. Whatever kind of magicking Foley pulled on me, it worked absolutely. They show me his picture, and it means nothing to me. Yet I spent dozens of hours talking to the man, hundreds of hours studying him, and even went to Europe with him.

Europe is the horror. Not his erasing my memory—no, he was gentle with me. It was the videotape we got from the French police, through the
Sûreté
: the Bulgarian secret agent who, after shooting his companion four times in the heart, had shot himself in the head; his skull on the left shattered and dribbling brains, his eyeball extruded and lolling on his cheek—but still he was miraculously alive. In a rambling mélange of French, Russian, Turkish, and Bulgarian he told how Foley had ordered him and the other
agent to go on a long train ride, as far as their money would take them, and then walk out of town to where they would not be seen, and die. For seven hours they knew they were riding to self-inflicted death, and they could do nothing to prevent it. Perhaps not “nothing.” A bullet to the brain evidently broke the spell.

The agent died during the filming, while the doctors were working on him. Langley has sent out a team of forensic specialists to assist in the autopsy. Maybe they’ll find a drug.

What Foley did to me was comic by comparison. I woke up in Orsay, a suburb of Paris, in bed with a strange woman, with a red-wine hangover beyond epic proportions. I had been drinking—guzzling, actually—for three days, singlehandedly killing a case of a Burgundy that I find here in Boston runs eighty dollars a bottle. The woman said we had met in a Left Bank bistro, and one thing had led to another. She was worried about me, barely able to stand up but flashing a fat roll of francs, and brought me home with her; I evidently drank compulsively from dawn till dark until the three days were up. She said it was a hilarious time. I wish I could remember something of what went on. I don’t suppose Foley was entirely responsible for that particular amnesia.

By this time the grotesque videotape had made its way to Washington, and the proper connections had been made, and the police all over France were on the lookout for my body. (My passport had wound up in a mailbox at Dulles International, with Foley’s fingerprints all over it.) When I staggered into the
gendarmerie
in Orsay, the police quite properly acted as if they’d seen a ghost, and unfortunately repaid my benefactress by throwing her in le slammer for several
hours, over my protests. I had written down her address, though, and mailed her all my leftover francs, about five hundred dollars’ worth—God knows where and how Foley got them; my own traveler’s checks were untouched.

The
Sûreté
had also sent copies of the tape to the Bulgarian and Soviet authorities. The Russians made an initial loud noise and then said nothing. “Someone”—the French did not give their sources—had seen Foley leave the hotel with the two Bulgarians and then return an hour or so later, alone. Then he spent some time with me in the hotel bar, where he was seen to slip me some cash. Then he walked out of the hotel, into the Metro, and was never seen again.

From this side, all we know is that he landed in Dulles November 16, having booked first-class passage on the Concorde in my name. Paid cash. He set off the metal detector but convinced the guard that he had a pacemaker, which is not true. A
Peacemaker
is more likely; we know he’s an Expert pistol shot and has at least two unregistered weapons. From Dulles he might have taken the subway straight to National and stepped on the shuttle to Boston—no ID required with cash, of course—or to anyplace on the East Coast. Or he could have rented a car and driven to Akron or Tulsa. We know he did call home, but not necessarily from a local phone.

That’s where it gets complicated in an especially ugly way. When the videotape finally found its way to Washington and the computer identified Foley as being my section’s responsibility, somebody ran back the tapes of the phone tap and their apartment bugs. Silence for the past day and a half. The afternoon of the sixteenth, though, we could hear the apartment
being broken into. The “burglars” said nothing; just waited in place until Mrs. Foley came home. There was a brief struggle; they evidently tied her up and gagged her. That night, Foley called, and one of them answered the phone with “We have your wife,” in Russian. Foley hung up and has not called since. The two agents evidently kidnapped Mrs. Foley.

Which is remarkable. The KGB rarely indulges in serious crime outside of Communist countries. They must be as scared as we are over Foley. But more efficient: From the time the videotape was turned over to the Soviet embassy in Paris to the apartment break-in, slightly more than four hours elapsed.

My obvious first move was to pay a visit to Vladimir Borachev, Foley’s ultimate superior here, and ask whether he had committed any capital crimes lately. I was on my way out the door when I literally ran into David Jefferson.

He was a formidable-looking man, a black Charles Atlas. Handsome features modified by a webbed scar that ran from cheekbone to ear. He asked if I was John Jacob Bailey and handed me an envelope.

The letter inside informed me that Jefferson had been “attached” to my section for an indefinite period. The verb was to become too literally true.

“You’re a Marine sergeant major?”

“That is correct, sir.” He had a voice like a bass buzz saw.

“And this one hundred ninety-ninth Brigade is…”

“Special antiterrorism unit, sir.”

“Please don’t call me ‘sir.’ We aren’t being hijacked or held hostage. Why were you attached to us?”

“The kidnapping, Mr. Bailey. The murders in France.”

“You’ve been well briefed, then.”

“Not that well, actually. The fact of the crimes; the KGB connection.”

“Well, have George get you the folder, George Simpson. When he gets back from lunch. I have a shuttle to catch.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Not necessary. In fact, you’d be in the way. Unless you speak Russian.”

“—I’m reasonably fluent,” he said in Russian, with an odd accent that might have been Vietnamese. “Also Spanish and a bit of a few other languages. But that’s immaterial at the moment. I’m to accompany you everywhere, regardless.”

“Bodyguard?”

“Yes, but more than that. A plain bodyguard wouldn’t be enough. What they say about this Foley, he might be the most dangerous man alive, and you’re his most logical next victim.”

“Nonsense. If he wanted to do me in, he could have done it in Paris.”

“That may be so. Nevertheless, I have my orders. As have you.” The letter was from Langley.

“Oh, all right. Let’s go.” I barely had time to worry about how to handle the red tape—how to bill the Marines for his shuttle flight—when Jefferson solved the problem by suggesting that we “manifest ourselves on a special flight,” i.e., commandeer a military aircraft. I could see that he might sometimes be handy to have around.

Sitting by ourselves in the back of a twenty-passenger turboprop, we got to know each other a little. Jefferson was a few years younger than I; started at West Point but dropped out to join the Marines, so he could make it to Vietnam before the war was over. He served fourteen months’ duty there and was not
happy when we pulled out. Later he was an “adviser” in El Salvador and, temporarily out of the Marines, did some wet work in Nicaragua. Wounded eleven times; the scar on his face was from a bayonet (he had taken the weapon away and “fed it” to its owner). He was obviously on amiable terms with mayhem, but was matter-of-fact about it. Unnervingly so.

When he unbuttoned his Harris Tweed tent of a jacket, you could see he was actually a fraction smaller than he appeared, bulked out on the right by an Ingram machine pistol Velcro-ed to his side, and on the left by a crossdraw.44 Magnum. He was also wearing body armor and advised me to requisition same. Said it had saved his life twice. I suspected that bullets would bounce off him anyhow.

I told him in a blunt but, I hope, friendly way that I considered him a liability. An agent has to fade into the background, look like a bank clerk or a schoolmarm. He can’t have a Sherman tank for a pet.

Surprisingly, he agreed. But he pointed out that this was no normal intelligence operation; everyone involved would know that I was CIA anyhow. His presence might make people think twice before trying anything dramatic.

We got to the Soviet trade mission by two o’clock. The outer office was large and severe, a few faded Intourist posters not livening things up. The receptionist also was large and severe. She told us that Comrade Borachev saw people by appointment only. I showed her my State Department identification. She said Comrade Borachev wasn’t in today. Maybe on vacation.

It was a good thing we’d seen a file photo of him; he walked in at just that moment, brushing snow off his shoulders and looking expectantly friendly.

“Mr. Borachev,” I began.

“—He’s from the State Department,” she snapped in Russian.

“—Actually, the CIA,” I said. “—This is a matter of great urgency. No time for games.”

“We can speak English,” he said slowly. He looked at Jefferson. “You are also from…”

“U.S. Marines, sir. Security.”

“You don’t expect violence.”

“We don’t know what to expect,” I said. “Is there someplace we could talk?”

“My office.” He walked toward the door, and we followed. He cut off Jefferson. “Actual spies only, please.” I nodded, feeling a little apprehensive, and Jefferson reluctantly eased onto a small chair.

Borachev’s office was comfortably cluttered. He got us each a cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk. The only other chair was a few inches lower. He smiled down at me, a wan smile. “So you have some interest in the import-export business?”

“As I say, there’s not time to be coy. I’m sorry to hand you such a shock. I’m sure that the Agency would much rather leave you alone in place—”

“’Better the devil you know,’” he said.

“Right. But many lives may be at stake. We have to move quickly.”

“Forgive me for pointing out that this is a common American trait, certainly in business: perceiving a need for haste in all things.” He looked quizzical. “Many lives?”

“Yes. What do you know of Nicholas Foley? Do you know where he is?”

For a long time he chewed at his lower lip. “I think I had better not answer that. If you press me, I’ll have to get a lawyer.”

“Let me spell it out for you. I know and you know that you are a rather high-ranking officer, a colonel in the KGB. But your official identity here carries no legal perquisites. No diplomatic immunity. And you are implicated in a kidnapping and at least two murders.” His brow furrowed at that, but he didn’t say anything. “Gas chamber,” I added helpfully.

He covered his face with both hands and kneaded. “No. This is some kind of…CIA trick. Setting me up, as you would say.”

“Nothing of the kind. Day before yesterday, two people kidnapped Valerie Foley. They spoke Russian.”

“Valerie Foley, that is his wife?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “It wasn’t anybody from the KGB. You had better look to your own house. I’m sure the CIA has many Russian-speaking employees.”

“The CIA didn’t kidnap her. If we wanted to pressure Foley, we have dozens of legal ways to do it. You don’t.”

“But neither do we have a
reason!”

I had to laugh at that. “Two murdered KGB agents isn’t enough reason?”

He leaned back, chair squeaking. “All right. Now I know something, uh, fishy is going on. Some sort of game.”

“Not a game.”

“I’ve known Professor Foley since he was a young man. Since we were both young men. He’s not capable of violence.”

“A few days ago, I would have agreed with you. He’s a gentle, pleasant man. But either that’s a mask or he is genuinely mad. Perhaps in the sense of having
more than one personality. Look at this.” I handed him two grisly still photographs we had made from the
Sûreté
tape. “I do think he’s mad.”

“My word.” Borachev looked genuinely repulsed. “You claim Nicola did this?”

“Worse—he compelled them to do it to themselves. The one who shot himself in the head lived long enough to tell. He has some sort of Svengali-like power. We don’t know what the limits of it could be. I know it sounds fantastic, but it’s true. That Marine says they’re calling him the most dangerous man alive. Probably no exaggeration.”